Memory Serves
by jayjayvee
Summary: Sherlock's memory serves him well. He definitely remembers his drug use and never wants to go back. But when a new case brings up old fears, he has to face his past or be forever in the dark. Edited Chap 1. Chappie 2 up. For real now! Plot twist initiate!
1. No Price to Pay

**A/N:** So! I'm back with another fic. I have a much longer and angsty-er and h/c-ier work in progress but this plot bunny decided to make a freakin' rabbit farm in my brain. This chapter isn't as dark as the next. I have a major plot twist on the way! Cyber High-Fives to anyone who gets the song reference in the title without the quote :P

**Reviews:** My policy on reviews is the same- Reviews are gladly accepted, even if it is only a word or two. I haven't posted in years? Please review anyway. You can always bring me back to a piece or fandom with a good review even if I've completely moved on

**Warnings: **It's T for a reason.

Memory Serves

Chapter 1- No Price to Pay

It would be no price to pay. I only ever lie to make you smile. All kinds of dust are gonna keep my occupied but only at you place. Tonight a special memory serves me and I'll wait to fly the wrong way. Tonight is special. Memory serves me and I'll wait to fly… And I'll play to find that I'm grey. I only memorize those fates I deny. ~Memory Serves, Interpol

Sherlock stared the clothes on the bed with vehemence that he didn't even give the vilest of killers. They taunted him. The red shirt with some trashy band logo on it was torn and stained with what looked like years of misuse. The jeans were far too baggy and soiled with mud and other disgusting yet unidentifiable substances, worn and ripped to the point of almost falling apart. Typical drug addict clothing that looked like it had been worn every day for weeks now.

In reality, John had just picked them up today at the ASDA to make a disguise for Sherlock after discovering that Sherlock owned nothing that cost less than a few hundred dollars, let alone a pair of jeans. He had spent all day trying to make the clothes look tatty and, frankly, he was quite proud of his work. But that sense of pride melted away the second he looked up at Sherlock's face.

"What's wrong?" His puzzlement was clear in his voice. "Please tell me I got the right size. I had to _guess_ because _you _weren't replying to my texts _as is usual_ and I don't want to have to do it again." Sherlock didn't respond, just stared at the clothes like John had told him to eat them. The silence fell long and tense on the room.

The empty arm and leg holes of the clothes stared up at Sherlock, tempting him, telling him to slip inside of them, to put on a new skin. For him they promised release. They swore that they would take his mind away and give it back when he wanted it, whispered words of comfort on gentle breezes and mended broken dreams. Promises for the world and the universe beyond presented themselves on silver platters. How many lies can be spun in the recesses of a sloppily repaired mind before it rebels? John scoffed in frustration.

"Okay. Whatever. I'll go put some more stains on them, alright?" Sherlock still didn't respond and John turned away from the clothes throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I give up! You're exhausting!" He began to walk out of the room, slipping behind Sherlock.

To his surprise Sherlock reached out and grabbed his wrist. Stunned, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock didn't know what overtook him as he stopped John from leaving and he immediately cursed his subconscious. Maybe deep down he knew he wasn't strong enough to resist the temptations, maybe he truly did wanted someone to hear his story. Either way, that was what he had done and now John was here and he wasn't leaving.

Slowly, John turned and walked back to his friend's side. Sherlock took a long, shuddery breath before speaking.

"John. I don't think I can do this." Suddenly he seemed very small. He was pulling his coat closer to his body as if to keep himself from falling apart and reforming in clothes on the bed. His voice was quiet as if talking any louder would awaken the beast. He hadn't moved his eyes from the offending clothes but now there was a touch of fear creeping up behind the hatred. John gave him a sad smile.

"Sorry, but I don't think you have much of a choice, Sherlock."

"But-"

"Oh come on Sherlock. Are you really complaining about having to wear clothes that are dirty and cheap like a normal person? I worked all day on these. The entire case hinges on you going to meet this drug dealer and being convincing." Sherlock lifted his head up from his chest. John immediately felt bad for talking so sharply to him and trying to undermine what Sherlock had said. He had to use an immense amount of power to keep from jumping back. The look in Sherlock's eyes was terrified but sad and resigned at the same time. "Sherlock? For the love of god tell me what's wrong. You're worrying me."

"I can't do this." He repeated, barely muttering loud enough to hear. John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and was pleasantly surprised when the other man relaxed a bit under his touch. Ever since John came around, he was Sherlock's anchor. They understood each other better than anyone else ever had despite the monumental differences between them. His voice was soft when he spoke again leaving Sherlock to wonder how John knew him so well without ever asking.

"Why is that, Sherlock?"

"Because you did too good of a job."

"What do you mean?" Now John was genuinely confused; Sherlock's voice had become harsh but the pleading look in his eyes contradicted his steely personality.

"Have you ever wondered why I dress the way I do?" Of course Sherlock would avoid the question posed by asking another one. But honestly John had wondered.

"Yeah... I guess I have wondered why you would dress absurdly expensively when women would think you look good in a trash bag." John's joke didn't make Sherlock crack a smile.

"It is because of clothes exactly like these."

"Alright, you don't want to dress trashily. But seriously put them on already. The case relies on this."

"I can't John." Until now, John hadn't caught the gravity of the situation. It was when Sherlock's voice cracked and he crumpled like a paper onto the bed that John realized what Sherlock was at this moment in time: a man struggling with his past. "Can't you do it? I don't- I can't..." What Sherlock didn't say was, "Help me," even though that was what he meant.

"Sherlock, you know that I won't be a convincing enough drug addict to make the dealer believe me. And, honestly..." He faltered for a second but decided honesty was the best way to go, "You have experience with these types of people."

"That is my point exactly." He spoke intensely from behind the hands he had buried his face in, "These clothes are too good. They look just like the shit that I used to wear when I was as high as a kite all the time. That is why I don't wear _regular people_ clothes. If I don't look the part then I can't be tempted" As a rule, Sherlock almost never cursed, only when the world was crashing down around him. "I don't want to be tempted because I don't want go back there. I don't want to be shaking and vomiting on the bathroom floor with withdrawal when I have to quit again. I don't want to be sleeping in a crack house with ten other people that only want to steal my stuff because it is better than a box outside. I don't want to have to mug people to get my next fix or kill a man for their money.

"John, I'm a murderer. I went too far when someone was trying to steal stuff and killed them. I jumped a schoolgirl because Mycroft wouldn't give me any more money and she was flaunting her cash a bit too much. That was the worst. That was when I was too far out of control. Once, I left a man in an alley to bleed to death.

"No one cared when I was lying on the bathroom of a disgusting flat, in clothes just like these, seizing with an overdose. For all they cared I could vomit my guts out as long as I gave them money. I've tried just about every drug known to man and I am a terrible person because of it.

"John if I go in there in these clothes and talk to that drug dealer that is exactly where I will end up. But, this time, I have someone that cares about me and it would hurt you more emotionally then it could ever hurt me physically. I don't want to do that you. I don't want you to have to see me out of control." Sherlock's voice was filled with pain and regret that rivaled none and his heart dropped even more when John turned and walked away. With anger he wiped away the tears that had unwillingly dripped from his eyes. _John is right. I am a horrible person. I deserve to live and die alone. _

He was shocked out of his dark reverie by the sound of drawers opening and closing behind him. Confused, he looked up to see John rifling through clothing.

"Hold on." John murmured, motioning for Sherlock to look away, "I'm changing." When Sherlock looked back up, John was standing before him, the clothes he had adjusted for Sherlock slightly sticking out of the small trash can in John's bedroom. With a sheepish smile on his face and old oil stained clothes jeans and a faded t-shirt on his body, he raised his arms a bit to show Sherlock better but also in a bit of a shrug. "I hope this works. It's all I kept from before the war, you know, for work clothes, 'cause I changed car oil in this for a friend when I was in med school and I know that it's not really dirty enough and you'll have to coach me a bit on talking to these guys..." Sherlock stopped John's incessant ramblings easily enough. With a small smile on his lips and an eternally grateful look in his eyes, he stood and pulled John into a hug.

"Thank you." he murmured into John's shoulder.

"There is no way I was gonna let you go back to that." The sadness was evident in John's voice. Sherlock repeated himself in reply.

"Thank you."

Dredges

Initiate


	2. The Man I Am

**Memory Serves**

**Quick A/N:** _One more chappie after this (I think…) Unless someone says otherwise :P And as a matter of fact, no. None of this was inspired by these songs. I'm just really bad at coming up with titles so I always use song titles and this time the lyrics really fit… Sorta :) _

_**Special thanks to:**__ The amazing __Dinogeek__ (for reviewing all of my stuff and being supportive), Scoobavillian (For letting me be his Mycroft. Because I worry about you. Constantly XD) and Joy (for being a conductor of light) And anyone who has reviewed any of my other stuff, reviews this time, and/or has author alerted me! You are all full of awesome!_

Leave a review or Mycroft will find you.

The Man I Am

Always. I want to live some more. I relax in a certain way. I control what I can. That's the man I am. Well it pains me to say and I do what I can. That's the man I am. That's the man I am. Coming out of the ways. Appearing out of the shade. All that you've known, be as it may, all that you've shown, reach in and try all day. Wanna try all day? All that I know, is you'll be okay. Follow your soul and it tells you to fly away. I wanna fly all day. ~Always Malaise (The Man I Am) by Interpol.

John thought that the clouds were crying for Sherlock tonight. They poured their sadness and heavy burden down on him and Sherlock, being the good man that he was, took it proudly.

John was just a child when his mother died but he always hung onto her words: rain is the laughter of angels. He may not have understood this but it always made sense in the way that it didn't.

Maybe the clouds were jealous of the happy angels and took it out on the humans below. Maybe God was showing his humans that if they were good and went to heaven they wouldn't have to deal with the rain and they could create it with their joy.

John may not have been able to pinpoint the day he stopped believing in God but he knew the exact day that he began to think that rain was sadness, not mirth. He could see it vividly in his mind. The hot Afghan plains and rugged mountains rising up around him. The way he tried and tried and_ damn he tried so damn hard_ to save them but it was hopeless. And then the clouds opened up and _what the hell _and a light mist that slightly resembled rain and_ what is happening? It doesn't rain here _and then _this is not the laughter of angels. How could they laugh at this? This is their tears_.The burning wreckage of the helicopter and the exploded vehicle _a double whammy _he thought almost whimsicallywould be burned into his memory for the rest of his life.

Maybe like this moment.

Most people would have thought that Sherlock was staring listlessly out of the window but John knew he was deep in thought. Somewhere beneath those cold, grey eyes lay a living, beating heart. And today it was filled with the deepest sadness possible: grief for the lose one's self. And _why? Why? Why, why, why? Why the hell would he do this to himself?_

The cabbie had looked at them very oddly when they both got into the cab. John slid to the seat behind the man in his new trousers and knitted jumper. Reluctantly, Sherlock slid in next to him in a ratty red t-shirt with some trashy, faded red band logo on the front and ripped and stained jeans.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie with a wary eye. John had never felt particularly comfortable in a cab after A Study in Pink but Sherlock was already trapped in a melancholy reverie so he spilled out the address. The car sped off into the late night of London.

The stars reflected in Sherlock's eyes, the oblivious balls of gas happily smiling at his struggle. His mind still spluttered a thousand excuses why not to, but one voice rang true. _You have to. _The clothes fit his body like a well-worn glove and caressed his batter skin. He could almost feel his mind sinking into them whispering _more, more_ like a melody from hell. He could feel himself slipping away. _No. _Another part of him protested but awfully quieter than the first. _I can't. John is your friend. _

_I'm back. Oh God, it's like I never left._

_Please, no._

He could feel his breathe becoming laborious like every second he didn't have that blessed, hateful, lovely poison coursing through his veins his muscles constricted. He could distantly feel his shoulders heaving up and down with the struggle to gain oxygen but he was no longer himself; he was far away and detached and blissfully, tragically numb and he wanted his body back and_ who is this man that is heaving with every breath? There is a voice whispering in his ear saying the name Sherlock and wait, isn't that my name? _

"Sherlock?" John had moved up to be behind the other man who now had his entire body turned to the window in an attempt to hide his face. "Look at me Sherlock." No response. "Please look at me." There was a pleading tone to John's voice that struck a nerve in Sherlock's fear addled mind. Flashbacks, sounds and scents, the textures all chased after one another in his mind so quickly that before one had stopped another one was overlapping creating a horrible collage of pain and ecstasy and if he hates it so much then why does he want it back so bad? Why can't he just forget? "Please." Maybe it was the way his voice faltered that made Sherlock let John touch his chiseled jaw bone and turn his face, and as a result his entire body, to face him. Maybe it was the way that John's calloused fingers were warm and safe and felt like home and were from now and not from a past full of needles and syringes. Maybe it was the look on John's face that said "I care. I won't let you die. I will take care of you and, if need be, I can hold you through the shaking of withdrawal. But I'll try to make sure you never need that."

"Will you talk to me, Sherlock? Please." _Why does John look so sad? He's not the one putting himself on the line._

But John knew the look written across Sherlock's body only too well. He didn't need to be a genius to deduce what was wrong with him. The look of distant fear in his eyes, the way his hands twitched and fluttered like broken butterflies in his lap, his struggle to breathe. Sherlock was in the throes of an extreme panic attack.

"Are you sure you can do this? We can still turn back. I can get some other clothes on and I can talk to him. We could just go home and get a cup of tea and watch crap telly all night and in the morning I'll call Lestrade and he can get the information we need and then we can close the case and act like this never, ever happened. It's okay. I want to do this as little as you. Just tell me now. Can you do this?"

Every fibre of his being ached to say "I can't," to let John tell the cab driver to turn around and they could sit on the sofa all night watching reruns of those crappy American crime dramas that Sherlock could solve before the title sequence was over in the blissful ignorance of before this case ever began, before all of this started to strike far too close to home. But how can ignorance be compared to bliss?

"I have to."

"No, Sherlock. You don't. Why would you possibly think that you have to?"

"You once told me that the best way to conquer your fears is to throw yourself into them. That's what I'm doing. I cannot live with myself until I put this all behind me."

"Sherlock, I think that is some of the most illogical thinking I have ever heard, even from you."

"And exactly _why_ doesn't it make sense, John?"

"It's just- I don't see why-" John paused at a loss of words. How could he phrase the unspeakable? How could he tear down the best intentions of his harsh but broken friend? He began slowly, gently placing the words between them as if testing to see if the ice would break. "I know you regret what you did but this isn't going to reconcile it in any way. You can't change the past, as much as you want to. But that's alright. Sometimes we have to live with what we did and try our bests to never do it again. You are not that man anymore." He stopped letting his words sink in and contemplating the next. "You don't have to prove yourself to me."

For a moment, maybe just a flicker but nothing more, Sherlock's face seemed relieved. Like a great weight had been plucked off of his shoulders like it had never really held any mass at all, that this entire ordeal was some allusion that his stressed mind had manufactured in its deepest recesses and shipped off into a twisted reality.

But Sherlock never got to voice that. He never got to tell John that he really didn't want to, that he really had no idea why he wanted to do it in the first place, to take him back to the flat,_ just take me home_.

Puddles in potholes splashed and exploded flinging the water like the shrapnel of a grenade as the car came to a stop in front of a highly frequented pub in a shady part of town. For a second, maybe just the slightest of moments that could only be seen if one searched very hard, the rain drops stopped rolling, the heavens stopped crying and sat in bated breath for what would come next. If you looked close enough you could see the cool water stop its kamikaze mission, stop plummeting to its imminent demise. Only the keenest of nerves would feel the dampness on their skin cease to increase. Only the acutest of children dancing in the rain would perceive that the pitter patter on their Wellies and slickers and umbrellas had halted.

But Sherlock noticed. Maybe that was all that he was good for. Observing. But the second he got involved it all crumbled, everything turned to dust and fell to bits like the rain slowly eroding away the tar of the street.

The cab had skidded to a halt on the damp roads. The moment of truth.

All the things that Sherlock could never say were lost the wind. Everything was lost to his ears besides the familiar din of the blissfully drunk. Lost to him besides the cool, soothing brown that was John's eyes. The eyes that meant tea and warm jumpers and toast with a hefty amount of jam shoved down his throat just before he passes out form near starvation. That meant crap telly and running through London and blog posts that Sherlock said he hated but loved more than anything because what is a genius without and audience? The eyes that meant home.

"Will you wait for me?"

John knew every connotation of what Sherlock said. But he also knew that Sherlock meant every one of those double meanings. Would John wait for him? Not just on the resolution of this case. Would he wait for him when he almost inevitably succumbed to the needle again? Would he wait up every night he was gone? Would he sit through the tragically beautiful wails of the violin that was only meant for John?

"Will you be in the shadows?"

"Of course." John whispered. He took Sherlock's hand. But Sherlock was too quick to pull it away and was already opening the cab door.

"Can you get the fare John? Thanks." His abrupt cold manner was back his defense mechanism sliding back into place as he began to pour out directions to John. "This is what I need you to do: Stand off to the side where you can't be seen, no matter what I say do not come to rescue me, no matter what I do _don't_ rescue me-"

"Hold on. Then what is the point of me being here?" Sherlock looked John square in the eye but John could no longer see the icy blue in the dim light as they approached the rendezvous point.

"Moral support."

Sherlock suddenly stopped, grabbed John by the shoulders, and maneuvered him into a darkened alcove.

"Stay here" Sherlock mouthed as he began to walk off. From his position John could see the man Sherlock was going towards but couldn't be seen. Although, John didn't need to see to be able to know exactly what Sherlock was doing: a perfect junkie impression. When the war against crime gained Sherlock, the stage lost an amazing actor. If John hadn't known any better he would have thought this was a routine drug exchange. In reality, it was anything but.

The man was inconspicuous. Just your normal average everyday bloke texting as he waiting for a friend or a cab to pass. What gave him away was the way his eyes darted up as Sherlock approached. A thousand facts flitted in and out of his mind. _Dealer but not a user. Was married at one point in time. No kids. Very unsteady relationship as can be expected. Divorced for three years now. Actually has a really good education and is intelligent but got in too much debt, couldn't see a way out. He doesn't need to deal anymore but now that he is in there is no getting out. More of a novice but very skilled for only having four years under his belt. Should be easy to trick._

Sherlock was just as inconspicuous as the dealer was. He nonchalantly half-stumbled his way over to the man and stopped as if they were old friends and they were gonna have a quick chat. But what Sherlock whispered in his ear was not a friendly greeting.

"Do you have it?"

The man scoffed. "Of course. Show me the money first though." _What a clever biscuit._ Sherlock flashed the corner of a ten pound note.

"There's more where that came from." The man's eyes lit up greedily.

"Here you go bruv." A tiny flash of his hands was all it took for the man to slip the baby food jar into the pocket of Sherlock's torn jean jacket, also courtesy of John. Sherlock pulled the exact amount of money from his jeans and counted out the ten pound notes to the man until the agreed total was reached. Typically, that was the end of a meeting. They would part ways both with what they wanted. But not tonight.

Sherlock leaned in as if he was telling the man a great secret _make him feel as if he is part of something important _and began to say "Listen man. I need to know about a guy named-"

"Hey." The other man seemed extremely offended. "What kinda man do you think I am?"

"No. No, no, no. That's not what I meaned. I got you a _few_ hundred pound notes if you tell me 'bout the man I'm looking for." Sherlock pulled out a hundred pound note. He knew something was wrong the second the greed slipped back into the man's eyes. _Shit. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid rookie mistake. _

"Gimme the money and then we'll talk."

"No."

"Gimme the money man." The dealer's anger was escalating. Sherlock slipped the note back into his pocket.

"Tell me what I need to know and then the money's all yours."

"Give it to me. I don't wanna have to hurt ya. Ya seem like a real sweet guy. So just gimme the money so ya can run home to Mummy."

"No," was Sherlock's firm reply.

The flash of sliver in the dim light was all of the warning Sherlock had before the switchblade was being brandished at him.

But it was all the warning Sherlock needed.

His hand was on the blade, heedless of the gash made across his palm. Blood flew through the air as he spun around, almost like a ballerina, deepening the cut on his hand but also taking the knife from the man's grip. All it took was a punch to the man's face and Sherlock had gained the upper hand.

Fear danced across the man's features as he pleaded with Sherlock.

The blackness was in control. Sherlock didn't even care or feel the tiniest bit of remorse as he put the knife, now in his uninjured hand, up to the man's throat. Slowly pressing down. A red line working its way across his neck. His incessant pleas and cries, floating up to the down pouring heavens with Sherlock's growls of anger and hissing demands. A tear of blood dripping down the knife, gently forming at the tip and dropping to the ground to mix with the rain.

A new voice one not pleading or demanding. One soft and kind but forceful.

"Sherlock! Get off of him! Let go now!" A hand on his shoulder trying to combat his brute strength. Another trying to get the knife from his hands. But it was almost pointless.

Almost.

Sherlock practically melted when he saw John out of the corner of his eye. His muscles fell limp and his shoulders slumped. The knife clattered on the hard ground with a ringing sound that was infinite yet nothing at all. An ultimatum.

The eyes.

That was what always caught Sherlock's attention first with people but especially so with John's. So much sadness, pain, fear, remorse all entwined in him when they first met. Sherlock thought that they almost equated his. Maybe that was what drew Sherlock to him, maybe it was the way John punished himself through the psychosomatic limp or the strained relationship with his "brother" that was very much like Sherlock and Mycroft.

None of that mattered now.

All that mattered as his knees gave out beneath him, as John barely caught him from collapsing into a mud puddle next the drug dealer, as he struggled to regain his suddenly missing breath, was that all of that pain, all of that sorrow and regret and just plain exhaustion was written on John's features once more.

And Sherlock had put it there.

Tears came unbidden to his eyes and caring about them was the last of his issues right now.

_Why? Why must I always lose control? Why must I always hurt John?_

John tenderly slipped his hands under the half collapsed Sherlock shoulders. Slowly and deliberately as if he was cradling a dying bird, something beautiful and graceful but tragic and complicated and out of its element on the ground.

Something that longed to soar but time and time again only falling from the sky.

But he would wait to fly. Even if it was always in the wrong way. John would be there to guide him. Always. Because that's just the man he is.

The cab was warm. Sherlock couldn't even remember how he got into it but he assumed that John must have helped him. Now the world was swaying and he was down off of his adrenaline high and he was sitting. John was next to him. Touching him frantically in his best attempt at a medical examination. His shoulders were radiating heat, pouring it into Sherlock. The hands all over his front and his sides as Sherlock slumped further back into the seat.

_Hands._

Sherlock mused. Those were always one of the first things he noticed on people. They drifted over Sherlock's skull lingering for a second to long in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock's hands reached up. Stopped John's relentless movement, hoping that maybe it would stop him from worrying just a little bit. And Sherlock's hand rested on John's, just wanting them to sit there, to rest in his hair.

John was murmuring comforts and chastisement alternately in his ear. Sherlock didn't pick out any words but just listened to the drone of his voice letting it fall over him, the rise and fall of his tone creating waves.

He laid his head on John's shoulder.

Shrugged. Not in nonchalance, not in a gesture of not caring, but in exhaustion.

Resignation.

"That's the man I am."


End file.
